


Watch Me Rise

by imitateslife



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom - Susan Kay
Genre: Acceptance, F/M, Friendship, Grief/Mourning, Lost Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-06-07 03:03:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6782698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imitateslife/pseuds/imitateslife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After his wife's passing, Nadir is forced to remember that every end brings about a new beginning... And that he is a man, alive and breathing, with a reason to go on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watch Me Rise

We held the funeral at dawn. The sky looked thunderous and gray, but rain did not come. Instead, the heavy air seemed even more oppressive than a usually humid morning might. Reza cried in my mother’s arms and I wondered if he was mourning a loss he could not yet articulate. A loss I could not yet articulate. Even after we interred her, I still half-expected Rookheeya to materialize in the doorway of my study. Since her death, I had not slept in my bed and I hadn’t dared to tiptoe into her quarters. I suspected the finality of her death would hit me with force enough to kill and I needed to delay it as long as possible if I hoped it would lose momentum.

In the days following Rookheeya’s death, I found myself unable to hold Reza. I had hoped to achieve some of the tender distance my father had shown me in my youth, but instead, I found myself all too fascinated with this tiny person who unknowingly stood testament to my beloved’s existence. In her time on Earth she had created – _we_ had created – something beautiful. And he was beautiful. I could see already how Rookheeya lingered on in his mouth and long-lashed eyes. I would watch him as long as I could, until one of the servants, noticing my tears, would take him from the cradle and into their arms and Darius would usher me somewhere to rest. I was reliant on him and my mother in those days to a fault. I spoke to neither of them, except in short, necessary sentences and loathed myself for needing anyone at all. Too often, I had the feeling that my mother’s eyes were at my back or that Darius would materialize from the walls if I seemed for a moment like I might give myself over to grief. 

As the weeks of mourning passed and life began to return to its usual pace, I prepared myself to return to work. Unable to leash my temper, I turned away any servant who impeded my progress. I longed with hollow ferocity to return to Tehran, where no one knew my sorrows. I even dismissed Darius as I began to pack my maps and books. He had offered me a collection of Rumi’s poems that once belonged to Rookheeya.

“Where did you get this?” I demanded. He didn’t have to answer; I knew. Darius could not meet my eyes and he bowed his head.

“Forgive me, Master,” he said. “I only know that you might want some comfort on the road.”

“You directly defied my orders,” I said. “I instructed that no one was to touch her belongings. Why were you in her room, Darius?”

He looked up at me. His dark eyes searched mine and I thought for a moment that he might riddle out my grief. Since we were children, he had an uncanny ability to read me. But instead, Darius’ mouth became a grim line. He shook his head.

“I understand you are upset-“

“I’m beyond upset.”

“-but you have to get on with your life. We leave for Tehran in the morning; are you sure you’ll be ready to resume your duties?”

“I don’t need your counsel,” I snapped. “I don’t need you questioning my competence! And I don’t need you picking through my wife’s belongings like some dirty grave robber!”

“Nadir-!“

He couldn’t have silenced me any faster if he had thrown cold water on me. I realized suddenly that I was brandishing the book dangerously and looming over him angrily. More disturbing, I had begun to cry without my noticing it. I hadn’t noticed _anything_ except my grief. For the first time, I wondered if I had had any other fits like this since Rookheeya’s passing. It was uncharacteristically savage of me. Darius was my trusted servant, but before that, he had always been my dearest friend. The closest thing to a brother I had ever known. If I was insensible to how I treated him, who else had I lashed out at? Who else _would_ I lash out at?  With my free hand, I gripped his shoulder. I had touched no one since Rookheeya's death, except occasionally resting my palm on the soft crown of Reza's head. Only my son had tethered me to this life… And yet, here was this good man… this faithful friend… standing at my side. I longed to say something to him, but found my tongue leaden. Darius extricated himself from my grasp and disappeared from the room. I stood alone, clutching Rookheeya’s book of poems. I don’t know how long I stood like that, just staring dumbly at the book. Temptation overcame me and I opened to a dog-eared page.

_When I die,_  
_when my coffin_  
_is being taken out,_  
_you must never think  
_ _I am missing this world._

I stared at the poem and suddenly, I felt very acutely aware of my pulse. It throbbed suddenly in my chest, as if my heart strove to rip itself from the security of my ribcage. I read on in silence, unsure of whether to cry or seethe. Who had dared to mark this page for me? Had Rookheeya, foreseeing her end, marked it? Had Darius? Or had my wife merely turned down the page weeks, months, years ago and never imagined what these words, written centuries before our time, would do to me one day? Blood rushed in my ears. I could hear the loud lub-dub of my heartbeat. I was alive. Alive! Alive and drowning in my own blood, overwhelmed by the sound of my own pulse. I became absorbed in the sound, both fascinated and sickened. I was alive, but I wasn’t living. Instead, I had thought to bury my heart alongside Rookheeya. I hadn’t succeeded. I was not unfeeling. I was not a husk. I was alive. Alive, with a son who depended on _me_. I couldn’t be for him a detached idol, as my father had been for me. I was not condemned to life, but blessed with it. A life with my son. _Our_ son. And this blessing burned. It demanded to be felt. Each breath I drew knifed through me. I did not find a chair to collapse into, but sank to the floor, reading Rumi’s words, which ebbed and flowed with each beat of my heart.

I do not know how long I sat there listening to my heartbeat and wondering if Allah would be cruel enough to make it stop suddenly. It could stop at any moment. All I possessed, I possessed because of His kindness. All that I had lost, I had lost because He saw fit. There was a greater plan for the world, one that I could not fathom. I tried to make sense of it, but instead could think of nothing but my heartbeat. I could not clearly think of Darius or _Madar_ or Rookheeya or even Reza. I thought vainly of myself and my lifespan. I could have but a few more moments upon this earth; I could live to be a hundred. I could not know. I couldn’t even hope to guess. 

I eased into the sound of my heart. Though I could not remember drifting off to sleep, I awoke to sunlight streaming forth from the window and Reza’s cries in the next room. Someone had draped a blanket over my shoulders.

And my heart still beat. I had too much left to do for it to fail me now.

**Author's Note:**

> The poem referenced in this story is Rumi's Ghazal 911, as translated by Nader Khalili. This is the poem:
> 
> "When I die  
> when my coffin  
> is being taken out  
> you must never think  
> i am missing this world
> 
> don't shed any tears  
> don't lament or  
> feel sorry  
> i'm not falling  
> into a monster's abyss
> 
> when you see  
> my corpse is being carried  
> don't cry for my leaving  
> i'm not leaving  
> i'm arriving at eternal love
> 
> when you leave me  
> in the grave  
> don't say goodbye  
> remember a grave is  
> only a curtain  
> for the paradise behind
> 
> you'll only see me  
> descending into a grave  
> now watch me rise  
> how can there be an end  
> when the sun sets or  
> the moon goes down
> 
> it looks like the end  
> it seems like a sunset  
> but in reality it is a dawn  
> when the grave locks you up  
> that is when your soul is freed
> 
> have you ever seen  
> a seed fallen to earth  
> not rise with a new life  
> why should you doubt the rise  
> of a seed named human
> 
> have you ever seen  
> a bucket lowered into a well  
> coming back empty  
> why lament for a soul  
> when it can come back  
> like Joseph from the well
> 
> when for the last time  
> you close your mouth  
> your words and soul  
> will belong to the world of  
> no place no time"


End file.
